When Lestrade pulled away from the kiss, Mycroft just stared at him with wide eyes. All witticisms and clever remarks left him, and for a second, he was twenty-four. Twenty-four and getting over a bad break-up, at that. Still, the boyfriend didn't seem to matter much now. Not when compared to Lestrade's goofy smile and bright brown eyes. It made Mycroft's heart melt in the most pathetic of ways.

"So, uh. Did you feel sparks, or was that just me?" Lestrade asked with a wink, although Mycroft's eyes and keen observational sense told him that Lestrade was nervous. Lestrade was nervous about what he had just done and how Mycroft would react over it. Somehow, that made it all the more sweet, and Mycroft's lips folded into a smile.

He reached forward and took Lestrade's hand. It seemed to fit comfortably with his. "It was…wonderful, yes. Absolutely wonderful. The entire event, Gregory, the entire date, I haven't had a night like that in ages." Although his voice was soft and hesitating, Lestrade's face split into a massive smile.

Mycroft took advantage of the opportunity again.

Leaning up, he pressed a softer kiss to Lestrade's lips. It was gentler and a lot more relaxed than Lestrade's random, chaotic kiss from earlier. Still just as perfect, in Mycroft's opinion. When they pulled away again, Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "Want me to accompany my date home? It's a tad dark out, sweetheart."

Oh, sweetheart. Mycroft fancied that he had a rather comprehensive use of the English vocabulary, and he knew of no sweeter word. He didn't ordinarily like pet names – his previous boyfriend frequented them – but the way Lestrade said them made him feel stronger.

It took a few moments for the request to process, and then his real life (oh, Mycroft was already starting to refer to it as his other life – not a good sign) came to him. Sherlock was probably waiting. "No, I…I can make it on my own. It's not that late, Gregory, and I can quite manage." His voice, previously brisk and professional, took a more sentimental tone. "I hope I shall be seeing you again?"

"Couldn't keep me away." Lestrade made a crossing motion over his heart and grinned at him. "It'll be like that odd scene in Romeo and Juliet, aye? You'll be hanging out your window, saying 'Wherefore art thou, Romeo?'"

"Oh?" Mycroft asked whimsically. "And will I end up drinking poison and you stabbing yourself in the heart, also?"

If his question took an ominous tone, Lestrade didn't comment on it.

"Only after I get exiled from London, lovey." Lestrade teased him, poking a finger into his ribs. "I have to leave. Work tomorrow, you know. You sure you don't want a ride? I can take you out on the bike."

That was utterly tempting, but Mycroft had to decline. They both shared one more kiss, and then they departed.

The walk back home really put the situation into perspective. He walked home that night with a boyfriend and a job, and he couldn't believe it. A few months earlier, he had been a pompous spoiled brat with a secret and a good amount of self-importance. Now? He had a home, he was taking care of his brother, he had a good job, and he had a lovely boyfriend. Life was as sweet as Mycroft's tooth.

"Where've you been?" Sherlock asked as Mycroft walked into the flat. Mycroft had been in such a state of self-examination that he hadn't blinked twice at walking around his neighborhood at night – despite the various calls he was certain were thrown at him. "You said you had an interview and then a shift, and now it's nearly – it's late. What've you been doing?"

"The interview and the shift ran a little longer than expected. You should be in bed by now." Mycroft spoke, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it up. Sherlock was already in his pyjamas, which had several odd stains all over the fabric. The troublesome little prat. "Go to bed, will you? It's late, and you have school in the morning."

"That's not fair!" Sherlock cried out, gazing up at Mycroft. His entire frame had a sense of uncertainty – Mycroft seemed happy and light, and Mycroft was rarely happy and light. "Did you…how did you do? With the interview?"

Mycroft stepped forward and pressed a kiss to the matted tangle of curls. "I will have a new job in the next few days. Now, go to bed."

And Sherlock did.

…

The following weeks were some of the happiest in Mycroft's life, so far. His job was time-consuming, frustrating, and liable to give him a heart attack someday- but he loved every minute of it. He argued, he debated, he consulted, he impressed, and soon, Mycroft was in charge of a rather large amount of work. As his work load increased, he found a confidante and a companion in Anthea – she had even confided in him her real name, and Mycroft had confided in her about all manner of things – namely, Lestrade.

The pay was a godsend. A miracle, it seemed like. Suddenly, Mycroft was able to cook at home every night of the week and able to put a little bit aside for a new flat one of these days. Sherlock gained at least a quarter of a stone, and that was enough. New clothes were gotten for him. They weren't rich by any standards, but they were no longer dirt-poor.

He had gone on another date with his boyfriend.

The guilt was slowly starting to get to him, of course. Mycroft felt the burning need to tell Lestrade about his entire life, from birth to the night to the fact that he was financially supporting his little brother. He slowly started to make little promises to himself – when he got a nicer flat, when Sherlock matured, when he and Lestrade were a bit more permanent. In making those promises, nothing would get done, but they made Mycroft feel better.

They had gone out to see a film. Mycroft had hardly remembered what it had been on –no, he had been consumed with Lestrade's arm placed heavily around his shoulders. Occasionally he would lean over and press a kiss against his cheek, and Mycroft's head would fall upon him. The darkness and intimateness of it all had made Mycroft dizzy.

Either way, he couldn't always be focusing on his boyfriend like some obsessed child. Firstly, Sherlock's birthday was coming up. Thirteen years of age, and by God if Mycroft hoped he would make it for another thirteen. He had gotten him something. Small, admittedly, but Sherlock's last birthday had been attended by the nanny and Mycroft. That was all.

At that moment, he was working in his office. Anthea had disappeared to get coffee some time ago, and Mycroft knew that his shift was almost over. More money to be carefully divided and invested. Mycroft Holmes knew the power of money, and he knew not to fool with it.

"Your boyfriend is here, sir. For the purposes of keeping attention away, I've told everyone that he's looking into a crime involving the government." Anthea murmured dully, slipping back into the room. "They've all retreated into their offices in fear. You're very welcome."

It was still a bit shocking, the lengths Anthea was willing to go for him.

Lestrade came into the office some time later, a small grin on his face. "Hey. Sorry for the interruption – you might've been busy – but I just wanted to say and your phone's off – " He seemed nervous, overly so, and Mycroft couldn't help but laugh at him. It was dry and pompous – after all, Mycroft was wearing his politician mask.

"Sorry. It's just that you look so…bloody official." Lestrade admitted, crossing over and running his fingers across his desk. "I mean, you always have, but the office just sort of cinches the deal. Yeah?"

"I assure you, it is entirely useless. I could do the same amount of work in a broom closet." Mycroft insisted, placing his papers to the side. "May I ask what brings you here, Gregory?"

"Just wondering if you were free tonight." Lestrade asked him. Even after Mycroft had consoled him, he still seemed nervous. Mycroft realised that Lestrade was no longer put-off by the office, but uncertain of what he was going to ask. "I was wondering if you'd like to come over. I'd make dinner." His voice seemed to soften by a decibel or two. "Stay over, if you'd like?"

Oh. It was their third date. Wasn't that the signal for…?

Oh, hell. Oh, God. Sex and all relating matters had completely fled Mycroft's mind the moment he moved out. Well, really, the moment his boyfriend had broken up with him. He hadn't had much time to spend on the subject. Although he had no doubts that Lestrade would be completely fine if Mycroft told him that he would rather not, or if he'd rather just come over for dinner, Mycroft still felt clawing fear at his gut.

And it wasn't just sex, either. Lestrade was inviting him in to his person life. His flat. Mycroft had deduced a good amount of what Lestrade's flat looked like – he cooked right next to a phone and the small dining area was just a little ways from that. One slightly broken-in sofa, a telly, a double bed. However, he had no idea of what it properly looked like, and Mycroft was touched at such a sentimental gesture. They were becoming more serious, and even if Lestrade wasn't offering up his physical person, he was offering something much more.

It wasn't that Mycroft didn't want to. Of course not. Over the admittedly small time they had spent together, Mycroft had begun to see Lestrade as a rounded individual. Yes, he had his faults – he was an absolute barbarian at times and quite dim on certain topics. Despite those, Mycroft knew that he was one of the few good people left in the world. He was loving, kind, sweet, warm. Everything that Mycroft could ever want, and unless he was hiding a corpse in the closet, Mycroft thought the world of him.

No, he was hesitant only as other people who had experienced a previous bad relationship are hesitant – they were frightened, of course, of it happening again. Mycroft fancied himself a strong individual, an intelligent individual, a headstrong and a self-starting individual – but months ago, when he had been a soft, albeit brilliant, spoiled little brat, he had his heart broken and his pride trampled upon. He wasn't keen on having it happen again. The easiest option to this was, of course, sealing off his heart. That had been the method so far. But Mycroft had never been one to take the easiest option for very long, and now, it seemed, Lestrade was trying to convince him.

But it was just too hard, because of his damn past and his fucking boyfriend.

Then Mycroft remembered.

Sherlock's birthday party. Tonight. "Oh, my dear Gregory, my apologies. I have something to do tonight. Very important, and simply cannot be rescheduled. I hate to do this to you, but perhaps we could do this another time?"

Although Lestrade's face fell, he did perk up at the thought of Mycroft rescheduling. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft's lips. "No worries, sweetheart. Some other time. Though I will have to cook dinner for you, yeah? I'm a massively brilliant cook."

With that, Lestrade left, and Mycroft leaned forward to put his hands through his hair.

It wasn't that he was worried Lestrade would be disappointed or annoyed with him. Mycroft was an excellent judge of character, he was fairly certain, and Lestrade's body language didn't read that he was dismayed at his response. No, Mycroft was disappointed in himself. If he had just been a twenty-four-year old, he would've agreed wholeheartedly. That's what it came down to, he supposed – if he had just been.

He had put his head on the desk and had begun hyperventilating before he had realised what was going on. His breathing was coming in quick, manic spurts. His limbs were shaking. He was crying, sniveling, shivering.

Anthea had stood up and put a hand on his back. "Is everything alright, sir?" She asked kindly, crouching down to get on his level. "I can call for medical support, if you require."

"No, it's…everything's just-" Mycroft tried to explain that he was alright, but the words would just not come out. He was mortified at Anthea seeing him in such a pitiful position, but she didn't seem to betray any emotion.

"Apologies for my intrusion, sir, but this wouldn't have anything to do with…your previous partner, would it?" Anthea asked him, her hands gently rubbing a spot between his shoulder blades. "Was he ever…unkind?"

"No, not…unkind, not ever. He could not be - " Mycroft hissed out, before just shaking his head in anguish. It hurt too much to talk about, and Mycroft just wanted to delete that unfortunate incident from his mind. "It wasn't – this isn't because I was ever – no. Anthea, just… I need to be alone."

"Leaving you during a time of distress would be improper." Anthea responded in her quiet, resolute voice.

Mycroft calmed down after a few moments, packed up his things, and left. He liked to think that he left his office with Anthea as a friend rather than just a PA.

"Sherlock, calm down, would you?" Mycroft insisted softly, placing the small cake in front of the bouncing boy. Sherlock seemed to be rather excited the entire day, and Mycroft could only chalk it up to a child's wonder about his own birthday. "Now, now. We must be traditional about this."

It was later at night. Mycroft had come home and decorated the flat as best he could. Although he alluded to how Sherlock was allowed to bring any guests over to the flat for the party, he wasn't altogether unsurprised by Sherlock declining to bring anyone.

Sherlock's singular present was on the table in front of him. Mycroft had ceased feeling guilty about that – in fact, he felt quite proud about being able to give Sherlock a proper birthday.

He started to sing to Sherlock, his voice a bit feeble and weak. "Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Sher-"

"Stop, for the love of God!" Sherlock moaned, covering his ears. "It's horrendous."

Usually, Mycroft would've gotten angry at him. Or would've told him off. However, Mycroft figured that he best allow Sherlock to have his day, so he just shook his head and shoved Sherlock's present towards him. "Here, then. And you're to eat some cake. You've regained some weight, and I shan't have you losing any of it."

Sherlock took the present in his hands and began to open it. As he did so, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"And may I just say that I am extremely proud of you, Sherlock. I could ask for a better young brother, perhaps, a more well-behaved one or a kinder one. But I would never be as happy with him as I am with you as my sibling." Mycroft explained honestly, and Sherlock looked at him.

He expected for the small boy to stick his tongue out at him or insult him, but for a second, Mycroft honestly thought Sherlock was about to cry.

Sherlock hid his face and finished opening his present.

It was something small, of course. Mycroft hadn't even meant to get it, but he had just happened across it. It wasn't in very good condition, and it showed. Still, though, it had cost quite a pretty penny and had set their 'flat' fund back a few pounds – but Mycroft still glowed with pride at the sight of Sherlock holding one of the few things he had adored during his time at the Holmes' manor.

"You thought I had forgotten that you played the violin, did you not?"